Heavy Hand
by tider58
Summary: Darkish one parter from Buffy's POV during Dead Things, as she reflects on Spike and what she's doing to him. For my purposes, she still thinks she was the one who killed Katrina.


**Just a darkish little one-parter that came to me after watching "Dead Things" last night and listening to my Breaking Benjamin CD this morning (love their lyrics!). Put the two together, and voila. Please read and review if at all possible. Thanks!**

Song lyrics are from Breaking Benjamin's "Break My Fall."

xXxXx

_You fought me once but not again_

_Let me feel your heavy hand_

_I will clean your fucking mess_

_And leave no trace of evidence_

_I am losing you again_

_Let me out and let me in_

_You're not alone here_

_Not at all_

_Let me belong here_

_Break my fall_

There is a body in the river that was a living, breathing person not three hours ago. And I'm supposed to believe that it's okay because no one will find her. Or if they do, no one will link her to me. I'm supposed to be relieved about that. _God._

He took care of it, of course. He would die to protect me, I know that, I just wish it weren't true. He won't let me turn myself in, even though the alternative will kill me, living as if I'm the same spunky, ass-kicking teenager I was just a couple of years ago, knowing every second what I've done. It would be easier to be one of the creatures I hunt. At least I wouldn't have to look at myself in the mirror.

I go to the mirror over my dresser. It's dark, but not so dark I can't see a murderer staring back at me.

Dawn comes in while I'm looking into those killer's eyes. She looks frightened and still hurt, from earlier, from my "I'm leaving you again because it's the right thing to do" spiel that I should have known would break her. She would look a little more of both if she'd seen what I did to her hero in the alley behind the police station. The way I just left him there, bleeding and broken, still calling my name as I backed away and fought the urge to throw up. I lost that battle on my way home, next to a flower-ringed mailbox with the name Jones printed on the side. How normal they must be, with their flagstone walkway and sensible sedans parked in the drive. Sorry for puking on your pansies.

I could try to tell myself I didn't know what I was doing when I hurt Spike, but that would be a lie. I could try to believe he'd pushed me to it, but the truth is he was just trying to protect me. Every time my fist connected to his face, every time his head slammed the pavement and his dead blood splashed and sprayed and his eyes swelled shut so that I couldn't see the blue anymore, a part of me relished it. Hurting him. I'm supposed to hurt him; he's a monster and I'm the Slayer, and this is the way it should be. This, not the other, not handcuffed to his bed and getting off on the exhilarating _hopefear_ that he'll lose his grip on his demon and drink, drink, drink me into oblivion.

Trust him? I don't even trust me.

She wants to know what happened. Why I'm not in jail. Where the blood I'm drenched in came from. She wants to know too many things I can't talk about. His blood is drying on my hands and my little sister wants to know if I'm okay. It might be funny if it didn't make me want to vomit again. If it didn't make the self-loathing a little brighter. She finally bitches at me for not answering and storms out, and I'm grateful even though she's even more upset now and a better person would go after her.

My hands don't feel like a part of me. Which one struck the killing blow? I don't remember now, but it seems to matter. Why does it matter so much? What's that thing from the Bible about chopping off the hand that offends thee? Killing some innocent woman in the woods, I'd call that offensive. But I don't know which hand to blame.

Both of them are responsible for Spike, though. The knuckles still sting, and some of those drying blobs of crimson are probably from me, from the impact, the force I used against him. I killed the girl by accident. Maybe I can make peace with it someday. Faith is currently walking that long penitent road, and surely I'm stronger than Faith. But the bloody pulp in the alley …

I'm punishing him for loving me when I hate myself so much. It's not fair, but fair gets lost in the promise of a safe target. I can't _really_ hurt him, after all, he's dead…

But his face flashes before my eyes (_Put it all on me_) and I know better. I'm killing him, not mercifully like the girl in the woods, who died before she even had time to register what had happened. No, with Spike it's deliberate, it's slow, it's cruel. It's beyond physical pain. And I'm doing it because he loves me.

I find my way to the bathroom in the dark and run water in the sink but don't wash my hands. There are still bruises on my wrists from the cuffs. Dawn asked about them earlier, but she'd never guess how I got them, not in a million years. She loves us both and wouldn't want to know about any of the depraved ways we use each other when the lights are out and I can't see the blue of his eyes.

I killed a girl in the woods.

I'm killing Spike.

I'm the Slayer, and this is my burden to bear.

xXxXx **_The End_** xXxXx


End file.
